


Watching Stars Without You

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [7]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1 Corinthians 13:13, Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brief Mention of Abusive Situations, F/M, Feelings, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Human Cherri Bomb, Human Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, No Smut, Smoking, Some Fluff, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Surprisingly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: People say that there's a dearth of affection and love in the margins of society, in seedy spaces such as strip clubs.People are wrong.It's a fact that Cherri knows. It's the truth.Sometimes, to appreciate art, one must take a few steps back.And even then, it takes a leap of faith.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Cherri Bomb/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 36
Kudos: 225





	Watching Stars Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Confusedace, I haven’t forgotten you; here’s some Cherri Bomb/Pentious to add to your pile.
> 
> And now, for something ~~completely~~ different.

“You should visit your son,” Cherri says, unprompted.

“Beg your pardon?”

She’s currently writhing atop Pentious’s lap, fondling her breasts and bouncing in time with the music blaring overhead, a touch more muffled in the back rooms. She whips her hands back to her ankles, gripping tight as she arches her back. She undulates, serpentine, twice.

Pentious dimly realizes how ridiculous this situation is. His dick doesn’t receive the memo.

Cherri smiles, sharp, impetuous as usual.

“That a gun, or ya happy to see me?”

It’s a ludicrous notion, he thinks as best as he could, considering the circumstances. His blood is rushing elsewhere, after all. It’s not like he’s operating at full capacity.

Also, he left it at home.

He tells her so, and she laughs. She’s a loud, vivacious thing.

Sometimes Pentious thinks he loves her.

Before squashing that poisonous, stupid thought back into the rough earth where it belongs. He’s just another faceless punter whose screwball antics amuse her. Nothing special at the end of the night. He sighs and it sounds like a sibilant sputter. The thought shouldn’t upset him as much as it does, but it does, and it stings all the same.

“Penny.”

She places a hand on his cheek, warm and a bit calloused and smelling faintly of metal. His mind first registers the scent, which probably originates from the pole. The second thing he computes is her touch, but it differs somehow from when he pays for her time. He should know. He’s purchased enough lap dances to know the difference.

“Penny,” she repeats. “Focus.”

How, he thinks.

But he tries to, for her sake.

“I said, you should see your son.”

“What in heaven’s name brought this on?”

He hisses and at this point, it’s inadvertent. For the life of him, he can’t stifle all his eccentricities, even when he actively tries. Worst yet, he’s sure the demon straddling him purposely provokes him. Cherri always riles him up to that near frenzied state, if not with her body, then with her audacious probing.

She’s always been that way.

Pentious wouldn’t trade her for the world.

“You,” she quips, swinging her hips downward and brushing against his erection.

Pentious clenches his teeth. He’s an engineer. He’s an engineer and he can bloody well handle this.

 _Her_.

“Care to expound on that or should I answer my own question?”

She sniffs. “I dunno. You tell me.”

I’m very fond of her, he reminds himself. Very fond.

It doesn’t quite work, as he’s hissing (again, he registers belatedly), “I can’t very well read your mind, missy. I’ve neither telepathic nor omnipotent abilities, so you’re going to have to bear with me.”

Cherri, infuriating as ever, mimics his accent.

“Don’t be thick, Pentious. It’s just an observation, and a suggestion.”

“And I’m supposed to take advice from you?” He scowls and looks away.

Daft woman, he thinks, somewhat unkindly. They all speak in riddles around here. Cherri and Angel Dust are usually the only exceptions.

Usually.

“Say if I do see him,” he relents, “how is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Cherri smiles, and he almost loses himself again.

“You? Who said anything about making you feel better? And fuck if I know, anyway. I’m just trynna give ya good advice.”

She’s transcendently infuriating. Hate is not the absence of love, but Pentious tends to forget that sometimes, lost as he gets, in the grand scheme of things. He never forgets that here, with her.

“Then why,” he sputters, “why the hell would you even bring that up? What on earth was the purpose of that?”

Mad bint, he thinks. He’s not whinging, he’s _not_ , but on the off chance it could be misconstrued that way, it’s most assuredly her fault.

She stops moving her body and Pentious is only half-relieved at that. Cherri sighs, slouched over on his lap.

“Look, Penny. I’m not sayin’ this because you’re payin’ me to give a shit, I’m sayin’ this because against all odds, I kinda do. Care, I mean. Your son is your son, and he ain’t ever not gonna be, and no matter your sitch with his baby momma, you should fight for him.”

Pentious’s palms turn clammy and his stomach twists into knots at the change in her tone. She falls forward, and he catches her with his shoulder. She lowers her face into the fabric. His suit dampens, gradually. Alarm bells ring in his mind. The about-face is entirely unexpected. He doesn’t know what brought this on, and the only thing he can do is hug her, awkwardly, as she sniffles into his shoulder.

“Trust me, Pen,” she says, words muffled, “fight for him. Fight for him, hard. They’ll figure it out as they get older. They always do. It’s when ya don’t is where things get messy.”

She exhales into him, hot and wet. He wants to stop her from doing that, but he can’t find himself to move. He’s frozen, and the cogs in his head have ceased turning.

She’s a grenade, and the shrapnels keep piercing him.

“They might not know when ya try, but they’ll be damn sure when ya don’t.”

Pentious doesn’t know what else to do than to hold her as she shakes.

_Bollocks._

He feels utterly useless.

A minute passes by and with it, the opening notes of a new song.

At the end of it, Cherri pulls back, her crying having dulled down during the chorus. Her eyes are slightly puffy, Pentious notes, and her makeup softly smudged, but otherwise she’s no worse for wear. She clambers off of him, but not before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks, old man,” she says. She fixes her vacuous smile, adjusting the veneer, and glides away.

He tells himself he’s not affronted, he can’t be.

But by and large, he is.

She always leaves him, taking a part of him with her.

Everything’s gone to shit, he thinks. Pentious curses his inability to act decisively when granted an opportune moment. Pentious is bombastic, that’s his style, but sometimes the follow-through is rough. There are scads of people who are more suited to outwardly intrepid gestures than he. Perhaps Angel’s beau can give him a few pointers.

Pentious gets up, his joints grousing at him. He makes his way past the other booths, blocking out the illicit sounds and hushed giggles.

One day, he muses, rounding the corner into the artificial night, one day he’ll ask her to truly explain, behind the mask she holds so dear and hopes that she will, sans the riddles and half-truths.

One day, he promises, eardrums ringing with the onslaught of noise.

One day.

* * *

The dressing room is, as always, distilled chaos. There are clothes strewn about everywhere, littered on most every surface imaginable. Tubes of lipstick roll past the chalky, smudged makeup palettes and off and over the ledge, clattering on the floor with a plastic _ping_.

She pivots in her heels, checking the state of her ass in the mirrors that line the walls.

Looks fine, she thinks, arching her back and spotting no obvious pimples or anything untoward. She adjusts the dollars in her garter, folding them down neatly width-wise, then secures the bundle with a rubber band. The larger bills are stuffed in her purse. She takes another moment to confirm their existence.

She passes by the dilapidated lockers, which are caked in sparkly, gaudy stickers proclaiming inane trite like “Fuck Bitches, Get Cash”, “Daddy’s Baby Girl”, and “Money Make Me Cum” under pictures of cartoonishly proportioned women. She slides into one of the few chairs available, the one right in front of the sign taped to the mirror that reads, in all capital letters:

ATTN: DANCERS, PLEASE BE READY FOR YOUR SET! ANYONE MISSING THEIR FIRST SONG WILL NEED TO PAY VOX A LATE FEE, AND AN ADDITIONAL ONE FOR ANY SONG THEREAFTER.

SIGNED,

MANAGEMENT

PS: WHOEVER IS USING THAT BODY LOTION, CUT THAT SHIT OUT OR YOU’RE FIRED.

It’s a hell, she thinks, touching up her eye makeup, but at least it’s a glittery one. She curses as her elbow makes contact with a bag filled with brushes.

“Velvet! Move your shit or I will!”

The girl in question swears under her breath, although Cherri can still hear the bitch as she moves her things across the room. She lets it go, this time. It’s already been a weird night. The next time, however, she might not feel so generous.

She applies more lipstick. When she’s satisfied with that, she sticks a finger in her mouth and brings it out with a _pop_ to keep it from smudging her teeth. She smiles at her reflection. Under all these fluorescent lights and reflected sea of painted faces, it looks forced.

She shrugs. Close enough, she thinks.

She has time before her set. Cherri looks around to see if any of the girls she actually likes or can stand are around. She perks up when she spies Angel.

Her stomach immediately plummets when she catches his expression.

Angel’s curled up in a corner on the ledge, forlornly checking his phone. Cherri sighs. She sashays over and sidles up to him.

What a night for broken hearts, she thinks.

“What’s wrong, Angie?”

“What’s right?” He bites out, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Oh fuck, Cherri thinks, time for damage control.

And also: That’s too many tears for a Saturday night.

“Angie, you’ll fuck up your makeup if you cry, and you’re supposed to go on after Crymini. I mean, you got time, but girl.”

He blinks, hard, and a few tears escape. They leave soft trails in their wake. He sniffs and uses the heel of his hand to wipe under his eyes, avoiding most of his mascara. He inadvertently wipes away foundation, exposing small continents of freckles, districts of dappled skin. Cherri squeezes his knee.

“Alastor?” she guesses correctly.

He nods, before sinking his head in his arms. This is unprecedented, at least to her. Angel’s usually waxing rhapsodic about his man.

“What happened?”

It’s muffled, but she can hear most of it. She gets the gist.

Angel turns his head to the side, verbalizing clearer.

“He can get so fuckin’ cold, sometimes. I don’t get it. How can one person be such a great fuckin’ guy one minute and a jackass the next? Why does he keep pushing me away?”

Angel gulps in a breath.

“Is it me?” he whispers, almost inaudible, but Cherri, so close she can feel his burning skin, hears it. She hears everything unsaid, too.

You love him, she doesn’t say. I know, you know, we all fucking know.

That’s why this matters so goddamn much.

She sighs. And here she thought the guy was different.

Guess not.

“No honey, it’s not,” Cherri firmly attests, as if it were even a contention, “Angie. Look. We’ve all been there, you the most outta all of us. I mean, Val was a shitshow, and Travis wasn’t any better. Maybe you should call it.”

She adds, “And stop dating dicks.”

“We’re not…”

A glacial spike of anger pierces through her stomach.

“You’re not dating?” She goggles at him. “What the fuck you been doin’ all this time, then?”

“It’s…complicated,” Angel says, mulish. Cherri rolls her eyes.

“Ain’t nothin’ that complicated, sweetie.”

“This is.” He takes a juddering breath. “Or was. Whatever the fuck it was, it’s done. He called it before I came into work.”

It’s the weakest sound, when Angel doesn’t quite want to believe something that he wishes weren’t true. Cherri hates it so much. She’s hated it ever since he started working here, back during the halcyon days, and then through the Valentino year. Angel lost so much weight and bits of himself in his tenure as Val’s little house pet, so it kills her to see him like this.

Brought down to his knees by yet another man who didn’t deserve him.

Cherri feels dyspeptic, so she puts up a finger, signaling at him to wait, then rushes back to her bag. She rifles around. Her hand closes around the rectangular box. She taps it, top side down, in her open palm as she walks back to him.

It’s a new pack of cigarettes. Cherri hadn’t yet packed the tobacco up to the filters. Tapping it ensures the cigarettes burn slower, which is a habit she wishes Angel would follow, instead of running headfirst into pernicious situations.

She peels off the plastic and flips open the carton. She frees two, the cigarettes poking out like tiny monoliths amidst a uniformed slab. He accepts one and twirls it in his fingers as she lights hers.

He gestures at her to come closer, preferring to touch the ends of his cigarette with hers, the two cherries touching and burning as his catches fire.

And if that isn’t so like Angel: craving human contact over cold, impersonal flames.

He takes a deep puff. She mirrors him.

“Cherri?” he asks in a small voice. An overprotective urge rears up inside her chest. She abhors that voice. She hears it far too often than she’d like.

“Why am I,” he begins. It hitches in his throat.

“So expendable?”

It breaks her heart as well as his. She reaches out.

“Oh, Angie,” she says, hugging him, ever mindful of the lit end.

“You’re not. Not even a little bit.”

She holds him as he rends apart.

“You’re a goddamn necessity,” she murmurs, holding fast.

* * *

When the door is shut, the music hardly reaches the dressing room.

The construction is meant to be somewhat soundproofed so that other businesses nearby can maintain their sanity.

Every time someone enters, the noise leaks in. Most of the dancers are familiar by now with the sweeping, fictitious mist of time that drapes over this fae space. All songs are shortened to three minutes or fewer, and drastic tonal shifts are the norm. He’s been conditioned to start at the change of a song, subtlety reminded by a swinging door, that his turn on stage can be at any given moment.

This effuses the space with a transient ambience as if everyone is held here by loose, insubstantial strings. Clipping them is easy enough in mid-orbit, and the minute another gravitational pull grabs hold, they’re sent careening onto another path, far away.

Angel was headed there, and now he is not.

He’s adrift, alone and aimless.

Kicked out of the house after being caught out by his father, sixteen-year-old Angel thought himself incapable of receiving love. Then Val came along, showering him with sweet promises and injecting him with pretty poisons, and for once in his life, he believed that someone cared.

Angel is not stupid. He just mistook empty grandiose gestures as love.

Rookie mistake.

After clawing himself out of the pit Val dumped him in, he stumbled headlong into Travis.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Same old song and dance.

Then Alastor happened.

Angel blinks, hard.

Biting his lip, he looks down at his phone. The screen lights up.

The sleepy visage of Alastor peers out at him from under dark lashes, smile crooked in a mellow curve. The starkness of the sheets contrasts with the subdued shade of his skin.

His heart constricts.

He peruses the messages he’s sent to Alastor, fervently hoping against all odds. The partners he’s had since Alastor amounts to zero, and he could feasibly change that but he doesn’t quite feel up to it.

He wants only Alastor, and he’s terrified it means forever.

Their last exchange before the fight glows in front of him, mocking.

 **Al <3**

**What would you like me to pick up on the way home?**

**Idk maybe Indian if ur on main rd**

**Same curry as last?**

**Yup can u add naan no rice**

**Gotta watch figure**

**They’re both carbohydrates.**

🖕

**Please**

**Just called them. Will be home soon.**

**😘** **Thx babe <3**

**You shouldn’t worry about your figure.**

**Darling, you’re flawless.**

Angel puts down his phone. It hurts, too much.

The door opens, again. Two of the dancers are bickering, but they move further into the room, mindless of Angel’s presence. His head tunes them out like radio static. His brain is galloping on all fours, relentless. He gives in.

Angel, fueling the insatiable addict within, picks up his phone, another innumerable time, and tries not to hold his breath.

This time, Angel’s heart leaps.

**…**

It soars up and lodges itself in his throat.

The ellipse pulses.

He waits with bated breath.

It flickers for another five seconds.

**…**

Then, nothing.

It just.

 _Vanishes_.

The world crashes around him.

Angel drops his head to his knees and sobs.

* * *

Fuck, Cherri thinks as she scrambles on stage, fuck Velvet’s shitty music.

Prismatic flowers of light glimmer and disperse into the deep pockets of the club. The disco ball spins overhead, its inter-galactical presence presiding over scores of dancers and men. Artificial scents commingle with artificial smiles inside this veritable den of iniquity. It’s riotous, it’s lewd, it’s sybaritic.

Cherri wouldn’t trade it for the world.

She jumps on the pole, folding her thighs around it. She bends over, flashing the audience with a gratuitous shot of her ass. Winking at the boys at the tip rail, she brings a hand down, smacking it loudly.

It’s good, filthy fun and she can feel Pentious’s stare from across the room.

He sits where he usually does, far enough from the stage but not so far as to lose sight of her. It tickles her, really, the way he gets so riled up over every cheeky action she executes. She’s mad about the way he flusters. A competent engineer, brought low by a swing of her hips.

She doesn’t quite remember when she began performing just to incite those reactions from him.

She twirls, she bounces, and soars her way across the stage, bathing under the blinking strobe lights. Tom’s really on his A-game with this set, as bad as the music is, she thinks. The previous songs culminate in the buildup to the third one, when she finally removes her top and exposes herself to the audience.

To Pentious.

It’s an exhilarating thought, and she rides the high until the song dwindles. Tom announces the next dancer: Angel Dust.

Oh, she thinks, Crymini must be in a private show. They put him on early.

After the titillating climax, she scoops up her money and clothes and moves to the next stage so that Angel can take her place.

He does.

Angel readies for his set by cleaning the pole, devoid of his overly seductive manner. She hazards a glance at his face.

There’s no improvement from the dressing room.

Angel’s eyes are blank. Dead. He looks like a husk of himself, were people to look too carefully.

Thankfully and disappointingly, they never do.

Cherri’s chest splinters at the sight.

He dances listlessly to the rest of her playlist, refusing to make eye contact with the audience. He robotically tugs his garter as they slip bills up his thigh. He goes through etiolated motions but either the crowd is oblivious, or they’re purposefully ignorant.

Everyone except Pentious.

Their eyes meet, and he shoots her a worried look. She tries to convey her concern, so much so that she completely forgets to remove her bottoms during her third set, resulting in a storm of catcalls and boos. Flipping the biggest offenders off, Cherri quickly slides on her clothes, gathers her things, and leaves the stage.

She wants to join Pentious, but she needs to check on Angel. A couple of months back, one of the girls started bawling on stage, and Cherri and Crymini had to yank her off and usher her back to the dressing room. Cherri had hardly known her. This time, it’s Angel Dust. Her best friend.

She refuses to abandon him like everyone else.

For his part, Pentious seems to understand and makes no move to join her where she stands, in vigil, next to the stage. Angel stumbles over and climbs on. She doesn’t think it can get any worse, but then, the song starts.

Angel’s changed his playlist.

It’s too somber and heart-wrenching for this place. She can see Crymini’s confused expression from her vantage point. Angel must have gifted Tom a sizable tip. Tom, to his credit, manages to make it work, as always.

“Introducing Crymini for her six song set! Just a break from your regularly scheduled programming, folks, but who doesn’t love a good romantic tragedy with nudity, once in a while? Here at Hazbin’s, we try our utmost to keep it fresh and fancy-free! Remember to play nice and tip the girls, that’s what they’re there for!”

Three songs. Three songs, Cherri thinks. You got this, Angie.

He can’t seem to get off his knees, at first, but he muddles through somehow. As soon as they leave the floor, Angel ascends the pole, as if desperate to escape the world beneath.

Cherri has always been jealous of Angel’s mile-long legs. Angel was never prouder than the time he told her that Alastor practically worshipped them. She keenly observes from under, in the crowd, as he wraps his thighs around and winds the plastic encasing his foot around the pole, mooring himself high above.

It’s too ethereal, too heartbreaking to witness. She breaks her gaze and looks away, when

She sees him.

He stands there, staring up at the counterfeit sky.

(As above, so below)

There’s a spuriousness about him that shields him from the world. He seems impregnable, unreachable every single time she’s seen him.

Barring this one.

There’s a crack in the façade, now. It exists as a sort of supercilious want in the open plains of his expression, but there’s more, now that she knows where to look. It’s coded in his face, written between the lines, weighted with the gravitas of unsaid words. It’s a lassitude that appears decades old.

She’s never seen Alastor look so contrite.

Somewhere close, she hears the clack of heels on lacquered wood, but it doesn’t register. She’s incensed. Fire licks through her veins at his gall. She scrunches up her face in rage, ready to march over to give him a piece of her mind when Angel just

 _Leaps_ off the stage.

He lands gracefully, all things considered. They lock gazes.

Angel’s is pages of dynamic emotions fluttering open in his face. Alastor’s is like looking through a glass, darkly; obscured and shuttered to the world, save for one person.

It shouldn’t make any sense.

And yet.

Angel bolts straight to him.

On cue, Alastor spreads his arms.

Angel jumps.

Alastor catches him with ease.

He barrels into his chest, wrapping his legs around Alastor’s waist. Alastor’s hands come down to support him, anchoring him in place. Angel’s hands shoot up to cradle his face, reverently.

Angel is held aloft in Alastor’s arms, under a kaleidoscope of false constellations.

For a moment, they just drink each other in, and Cherri knows that in their universe, only they exist.

(She isn’t one for sentiment, much less metaphors, but right now, they’re stars, comets, moons, and stardust.)

This all unfolds in real time, but Cherri can’t help but think that time does slow, a fraction. That’s what watching them feels like.

She thinks she can make out what Alastor says to his lover.

An-gel-Dust, he maybe mouths. An-tho-ny, perhaps.

Three syllables.

What other words could they possibly be?

Does it even matter? In many cases, words are insufficient. Sometimes, all that is needed is action.

Angel drops his head while Alastor tilts his up and meets him halfway.

They were always bound to collide, she thinks distantly, far beyond the cheers, jeers, and whistles erupting in the room.

Inevitable.

Good for you, Angie, Cherri thinks. Good for you.

They break apart, heeding no one else. It’s only to confirm the absolute truth.

Together, they succumb, once again, to gravitational pull.

Together, they bridge the distance.

* * *

She’s in a weird headspace after the commotion.

People think, unjustly, that women like her and men like Angel who work in these seedy, underground spaces must be broken somehow. That all of them must have been dumped out of splintered homes, molested or raped, catapulted from abusive relationship to abusive relationship, strung out on drugs, and exploited out of their minds. Those people, who haven’t lived it, accuse them of being fragmented.

Thing is, they’re wrong.

It may be true that most of the dancers here have been exposed to life’s great underbelly. She doesn’t dispute that.

But living through any of those things and coming out the other side isn’t the definition of broken.

It’s anything but.

Life can blossom in the dampest, darkest of places, Cherri knows. She’s seen it.

They’re so much more than the sum of their parts.

She carries that knowledge in the deepest region of her heart, and it warms her when she uses it to weather life’s cold fronts. She believes Angel does the same, and the tiny flame of hope is the root of all his courage.

She sighs, mostly to herself.

Angel was reprimanded by Vox for causing a scene. It was primarily credited to abandoning his set, partially due to PDA, but also in large part, due to Alastor’s very existence (“Oh fuck no, Angel, not this fucking prick”).

In any case, peacocking a relationship is detrimental for business. Customers paid handsomely for the fantasy, after all. There’s an implicit idea that every dancer is unattached and thus available for further engagement, a blatant falsehood that nonetheless is swallowed up by voracious customers.

Perpetuating the lie bolsters business.

But, and especially after witnessing the display tonight, Cherri realizes that she’s kind of tired of just business.

As if on cue:

“Now they’ve gone and done it. At this rate, I’ll have seen it all.”

“Stranger things,” she says, a queer, gossamer sensation unfurling in her stomach.

Pentious rolls his eyes. “Mental, the lot of you.”

“Has everything,” she coos, invading his space, “gone ‘round the bend?”

“Your attempt at my accent is atrocious.”

She laughs, belly-deep and unselfconscious. His lips quirk up.

“You were in a snit earlier, love. Anything wrong?”

She faces him fully and smiles, genuine, this time.

“Say that again, Penny.”

“What?” He appears soundly perplexed.

“That last part. What you called me.”

Pentious flushes, averting his eyes. Cherri thinks it’s fucking adorable.

“Love,” he mumbles, after a weighted pause. His voice is thin and wavering at the admission of the endearment.

Cherri’s transported back to the gravitational scene, to the inviolable softness held in Angel’s and Alastor’s smiles. The quiet reverence, the unspoken but no less profound-

_Love._

Cherri moves closer to Pentious. He mirrors her.

Love.

She likes the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song, Kissing You, by Des’ree.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> 1\. Thanks all, for reading, kudos-ing, and commenting. This was a blast to write. There’s another installment in this AU for RadioDust week, and it’s arguably a tad more fluffy than this one if that’s your jam or if you felt this didn’t sufficiently wrap things up.
> 
> 2\. Wearing lotion on stage is one of the fastest ways to get a heel up your ass.
> 
> 3\. Smoking: not recommended. Can confirm, was a smoker for years before quitting.
> 
> 4\. All of these songs have been played in strip clubs, even the last one.


End file.
